


Love, Haven

by caraluques



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Character Study, F/F, Kinda?, Lesbian Character, very brief mention of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-13 03:28:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20167393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caraluques/pseuds/caraluques
Summary: Pink-tinted rain batters the windows as scholar and soulweaver Haven sits at her desk. To her left, a stack of important notes, a mess of chicken scratch. To her right, an unfinished letter. It's been there for weeks. It's distracting her. Distractions stopped work getting done, so there was no analogue clock, the tick-tock rhythm being too much of a nuisance, and though her superiors grumbled about the hammering of the rain being a distraction, even they couldn’t change the weather.





	Love, Haven

In her fifteen-minute break, her quill danced in the air between a neat sheet of paper half-covered in tidy, casual handwriting, and a stack of haphazard notes caked in chicken scratch. Her pastry sat uneaten in the middle, observing her indecisiveness, and if she didn’t make up her mind soon, her break would have passed with nary a bite of food. A glance at the digital clock on her desk (analogue clocks were deemed too distracting, their _tick tock _rhythm sometimes drawing employees from their thoughts) told her that she’d have to scarf it if she’s to eat it at all – her break ends in a minute.

Absently, as her hand twitched left and right, considering each option, Haven noted that the two possible decisions really were reflective of both of her worlds. To the right was informal, incomplete sincerity, the half-written letter bringing out a more personal, less clinical side of her. It began with _‘Dear’_, of all things, a far cry from the generic _‘to whom it may concern’_s that acted almost as a signature on her emails throughout the office. But it was, after all, unfinished. She’d not been able to pen _‘love, Haven’_, yet, just as she was never able to continue nor finish that side of her life. To the left was what that side of her stood as sacrifice for: professional, albeit hasty research, a small mountain of it to join the other mountains in the cabinets and add to the range. Those were mountains for somebody else to climb; she just performs the research, the testing is best left to more practical minds, those with that propensity for hands-on activity.

From beyond her little world came the soft hammering of rain. It lashed against the window like it wanted to break through and soak her precious notes, and earlier that morning she’d closed the window above to stop such a thing from happening. Haven’s eyes didn’t flicker to the window, she knew exactly what she’d find. That impressive view of the city outside – one that, being seen from countless stories up, tended to set off her vertigo – and a collection of pink-tinted raindrops that raced eachother downwards. In a letter sent her way, now part of a pile in her apartment, the writer had described a similar phenomenon he’d observed in a visit to his capital.

_‘The sky’s been getting a bit coloured recently,’_ he’d written, _‘not over here, mind, but certainly in Junipest. We’d visited for supplies I can find only there, and it started raining as we left the shop. Neither of us had thought to bring an umbrella, those mages reading the forecast must have lied about clear skies, so we just stood in the doorway and watched it come down.’ _Haven had rolled her eyes somewhat fondly at the writer’s casual disdain for the weather-casters._ ‘It wasn’t clear like rain should be. Just like the clouds, they were a bit amber, like if you poured honey in a bucket of water and stirred it up together. No idea what that’s all about, though I’d bet my hammer those forecasters had something to do with it. You can’t read the weather with magic spells and expect it to stay the same, I expect one of their little incantations went awry and now the heavens are dropping honey.’_

He might not have been entirely wrong, she’d thought while reading his description. Travellers who’d left Auralong – and actually come back – often noted that the skies looked calmer outside the kingdom’s borders. No pinkness and shimmering and ripples and such, just clear blue skies, or sometimes lavender, or white. There wasn’t a doubt in anyone’s mind that their home’s magical goings-on had affected the very air around them, with the heavens turned everchanging and harmless little fragments of light sometimes drifting through the air like peculiar, man-made snowflakes. Less threatening than bog-standard pollution, but infinitely more curious.

The eyes in the sky surely had something to do with it, too. It was a fairly common bit of small talk, filling many a lull in conversation, to debate how much of the sky’s odd properties were down to Auralong’s magic, and how much came from those eyes.

Perhaps something similar was happening in his neck of the woods? The thought had amused Haven, she had no doubt he’d be annoyed by the intrusion of magic in the sky when sorcery was what he’d hoped to see less of by moving.

So it was that Haven felt no need to watch the rain fall. She knew it was pink, she had an idea of why it was pink, and she had but one minute left in her break and a croissant sitting uneaten. No time for distractions. Distractions stopped work getting done, so there was no analogue clock, and though her superiors grumbled about the hammering of the rain being a distraction, even they couldn’t change the weather.

Though the clock didn’t show seconds, Haven figured there were precious few of them left before work would resume. She huffed a little sigh and set down her quill, moved the unfinished letter to one side with a gentleness she never afforded her notes, and picked up her snack, fully prepared to down it in one. Only she’d misjudged the vague digital clock and it turned out she had fewer seconds than expected. The door opened with a click and her colleague, her wife, stepped into the room, returning from her own break. Haven settled for taking one regular bite of her pastry rather than embarrassing herself with an undignified stuffing of the face, and shoved the rest into her pocket, wincing at the thought of picking crumbs out after work.

“What progress did you make?” Esme asked in place of a greeting. _Ah_. She’d said she would take her break in the office to get some more work done, only to spend it umming and ahhing over whether to scrawl more notes or continue the letter. How very unproductive.

“Well!” Haven began, and what an eloquent introduction it was, “it isn’t much, but I checked and corrected some values over here,” she drew her wife’s attention to the sheet at the top of the pile. That wasn’t a lie per se, she _had _made a few corrections, but it certainly hadn’t taken fifteen minutes. It had been the one quick bit of progress she made before indulging in the predicament of left vs right.

The seat beside her was soon occupied as Esme looked over the page. “Good job you did,” she hummed, “incorrect data would have been a pain to deal with and I never noticed it. You shouldn’t sell yourself short.” Her violet eyes softened just a tad from their analytical sharpness and Haven sat a bit straighter at the praise.

“Now,” Esme continued, “I spoke to Fallacy,” _Felicity_, Haven mentally corrected (her wife was never great with names, though sometimes Haven wondered if it was on purpose), “and they pointed me in the direction of this,” she laid down the thick book she’d been holding. Its cover was aged and worn, it bore the title _‘Observations on the Stability of New Versus Faded Souls’. _Haven had barely read the title before Esme turned to a page number she must have memorized. “Apparently this holds some more obscure details on how a soul’s ‘freshness’,” she lost some of her formal tone on the last word, “might affect how they behave. We should start here,” she jabbed at the page she’d turned to, “and see if it can help with the calculations.”

With that, Esme adjusted the book so that it was perfectly in the middle of them, ever the perfectionist, picked up her own pen and turned to her notes. Having adjusted to the pace of progress that was to be expected in her workplace, breathing room be damned, Haven quickly took out a fresh sheet of paper and began noting down the book’s relevant details.

They continued like this for some time, silence broken only by the determined rainfall, the scratch of pen on paper, and the occasional comparison of notes. Esme left for a few minutes for a reluctant bathroom break, and Haven took the pastry from her pocket and quickly finished it off, careful not to spill any crumbs and provide incriminating evidence. The book had provided a few interesting ideas thus far, though most were speculative and a few directly contradicted their carefully obtained results, and so were discarded as outdated or just poorly researched. In due time another break was due and the two chatted amicably about their findings, and even snuck in a few comments not related to their work.

Esme could never know, but Haven often wondered how different their relationship might be were they not colleagues and had they been granted more time to bond. Their marriage hadn’t been arranged, but very much encouraged, if only so that Haven could adopt a new surname and leave behind the stigma of her family name. As such, it had been a rather rushed affair, a blur of dates in quick succession and the vague memory of an argument over what frosting to have on their wedding cake. Haven still couldn’t believe Esme had wanted grape-flavoured frosting, they’d had to compromise with strawberry.

Naturally, their marriage had seen them move in together, but even so, they were permitted little time to bond. Work hours were consistently long and they both had a tendency to continue their research at home, so absorbed in the pursuit of progress, much to the satisfaction of their superiors and the detriment of their personal lives. What little time they could spend in each other’s company without a stack of notes between them was highly enjoyable, they’d certainly done well to choose one another, but work took priority and that fact could get Haven down. She adored her work, devoted herself to it almost as much as Esme did, but sometimes she had to stop and wonder if this career was worth its costs. Not only had she sacrificed the chance at a slower, more intimate love life, but the chance to follow her sibling in his departure. Sawyer was now many miles away, available only by letter, and Haven’s dedication to her kingdom’s obsession with magic had kept her from leaving with him. Haven loved Auralong, she loved Esme and her research and the magic in the air, but her love for her sibling was something else entirely.

Of course, when these thoughts poked and prodded, they were bound to uncover less savoury feelings that had been ineffectually locked away. Feelings of jealousy that Sawyer was out there moving at his own pace and setting his own goals, living a more down-to-earth life rather than being reduced to a number in a long, long list of employees. Feelings of frustration aimed at her far away sibling, bitter that he could ever make the choice to leave her behind and pursue his own passion, which became doubly unfair of her when considering that it was Haven’s own dedication to her passion that kept her from accompanying him. This frustration was then levelled at the kingdom itself for its single-minded obsession, its practice of valuing the pursuit of magical progress above anything else, a practice that had alienated Sawyer and seen him take his leave. As much as Haven loved Auralong, as much as she loved magic, she couldn’t help but wish her home had been more accommodating. Sawyer’s name was dragged through the mud following his decision to reject the kingdom’s customs, the entire Rivenfell family name became tarnished by his unwillingness to conform. Haven Rivenfell was swiftly wed and became Haven Mirror, and with it, her career prospects bloomed while her connection to her sibling was smothered.

Both wives were too absorbed in their work to notice the door click open, but they did notice the voice that addressed them.

“Mirror?”

Two heads perked up, one quicker than the other, two pairs of eyes blinking away the chicken scratch seared into their vision as they took in their guest. Crisp, navy blue suit, cropped, unremarkable flora, the visitor’s only distinguishing trait that separated them from the building’s many employees was the glass container in their arms. Inside was a fairly bright, ethereal shape with little to no mass. A soul, pale blue in hue and judging by its brightness, freshly taken. The two glanced at one another and at Esme’s subtle nod, Haven spoke up. “Yes?”

Much to her ire, the visitor spared her but a glance before focusing on Esme. “Esme, I mean,” he clarified, voice betraying only a hint of an apology.

Haven tried not to glower, and Esme’s tone was just a touch colder than usual as she addressed the man. “What is it, Prez?”

“Prose,” the man mumbled at his shoes, or rather at the surface of the jar he was holding. He stuttered for a moment before focusing, looking as though he’d have liked to straighten his perfectly straight tie for effect were it not for the item occupying his arms. “There’s a new soul for your study, I need you to sign the appropriate forms so you can get started with it.”

“Finally,” Esme huffed, getting up and moving to the door, “they told me I’d have more to work with last week and nothing arrived.” The man kept quiet, merely setting down the jar and holding out a clipboard and a quill, the latter of which Esme ignored as she produced her own pen. A glance spared for the document’s contents and a quickly scribbled signature, and the jar was carefully handed over, Esme carrying it with ease over to a table in the corner of the room. The soul inside cast a blue tinge on the room, struggling against the already bright artificial lighting, though its light didn’t quite reach Haven’s desk. Such was the size of their workspace, still rather cramped in Haven’s opinion, but a step up from the miniscule boxes – cubicles, really – given to new interns and less experienced researchers. Haven could still remember her old, one-person ‘office’, barely large enough for her desk and chair, plastered in posters pertaining to whatever interests she could indulge between work, the desk littered with coffee cups and a single framed photo. Her – their – current office was decorated far more sparsely: a photo of their wedding day, one or two rather generic posters, and the desk neat and tidy thanks to Esme’s efforts. The only piece of Haven’s old workspace that remained was the framed photo, a captured memory of herself and Sawyer taken not long before the latter’s departure. It faced slightly towards the window, not wanting to catch the attention of any colleague besides Esme, who was more understanding than most.

The soul seemed nervous in its glass domain. One would think it might appreciate the scenery, having just been forced to choose between the view of its holder’s perfectly polished suit buttons or the indistinguishable corridors it was being taken through as it was transported. Surely the office would be a welcome change, there were even generic posters to look at.

Haven couldn’t kid herself, of course the soul would be nervous. When a soul is plucked from limbo before it can pass on, it is taken for a reason. It will be taken to Duskna, to one of the researchers studying the soul, and poked and prodded at as knowledge is sought. Given the kingdom’s culture of valuing the field of sorcery above all else, many if not most of its citizens are content to be of use after death, at least this way they might add to Auralong’s ever expanding knowledge. Some even see it as a privilege, almost eager to be of use, the consequences of which were… disconcerting. It was rare, but Haven had been disturbed more times than she’d have liked, which was exactly none, by stories of suicides committed by obsessive sorts desperate to aid in research. Such incidents had resulted in a decision made by the ascendant beings of Auralong, those all-seeing eyes gazing down from behind the clouds who ‘rescued’ souls to be used in experiments, to not take the souls of those who intentionally gave their lives for research. Were somebody so destructively desperate to be of use, their soul would be ignored and allowed to pass on to the afterlife. The stories became far less frequent after that.

Clearly, this soul was at the opposite end of the spectrum. Or rather, perhaps not the exact opposite, it didn’t seem utterly terrified and distraught by its situation (and thank the stars for that, Haven hated seeing innocent souls so upset to be researched. It had almost made her quit her job out of disdain for the lack of ethics on display, though thankfully she hadn’t seen another of those cases since then. Though she did still harbour suspicions that it was still going on and simply being kept from her). However, this soul still seemed anxious at their predicament, and Haven couldn’t help but feel sorry for it. Except that she had to help it. Professionalism was key and she could not be found hesitating in her work. Thankfully, with her study being more devoted to the drier aspects of magic, experiments were to be handled by others. Namely, Esme.

“Haven, I'll need you to continue with those notes while I get on with this,” she said once the visitor had left. She had her back to Haven, peering at the soul to take a quick, visual analysis of its behaviour. It seemed to have calmed down if only a little, seemingly relaxed by Esme's voice. Haven's wife had something of a reputation for being more reserved in her experiments with souls, a less frightening figure, and evidently this specimen had heard of her in life. This was helpful.

“Must it be done in here?” Haven asked, somewhat insecure in showing such a lack of professionalism but letting her discomfort win out.

“Relax,” Esme replied, “I'm not electrocuting the specimen, just taking some readings. Nothing to be afraid of.” She said this more for Haven's benefit than that of the soul. “Besides, the lab is fully booked, I hadn’t been expecting this opportunity to arise today. And the specimen is already nervous, results will be easiest to obtain in a quiet, comfortable environment.”

Esme worked while she talked, taking some small tools and charms from her bag and laying them out on the table beside the jar. They were simpler than those kept in the labs, but efficient enough for smaller tests. Haven was always puzzled by how resourceful her wife was; did she really keep those tools in her bag at all times, in case an opportunity arose? She had visions of all manner of soulweaving charms jangling around at the bottom of Esme's handbag during one of their rare dates. A vision followed of Esme poisoning Haven's food while they were out, ready to harvest her own soul for testing on the spot. Haven chuckled at her silly, rather morbid daydream.

“What? They will!” Esme spoke.

“A-ah, you’re right, of course,” Haven replied sheepishly.

New sounds joined those already struggling against silence as Esme conducted her work. As well as the scratch of quill and the tapping of rain, a myriad noises came from Esme's tools. Charms gave soft hums and twinkles as they were used and electronics beeped while hooked up to the jar. The soul itself even spoke to Esme once or twice, explaining how it died and how long ago. A fine, helpful specimen, it was. Letting her professional veneer fade just slightly, Esme even conversed with the soul, having found that treating her subjects kindly and casually improved their confidence and thus, made testing go smoothly. Both soul and scholar spoke as strangers; though knowing _of _Esme, it was clear that the blue light had not known her in life. All for the best, really. Haven had once been handed a soul in a jar meant for Esme while the latter was on her break, and the soul had recognized her as an old classmate, attempting to spark a conversation and displaying no nervousness towards its situation. Highly disconcerting. Occasionally Haven joked to herself that it was for the best that Sawyer had left to pursue his passion. She could easily imagine her sibling, reckless despite his stern nature, getting himself killed by some magic he didn’t understand, and then appearing before Haven as a copper light in a glass jar. To think how irked he'd have been to have his soul used for magical study.

Without Esme's watchful eye just off to the side as she worked, Haven set her notes aside for a moment and looked to her letter. So far, it detailed her recent date with Esme (a simple but entertaining night of cinema and fast food), a potential breakthrough in her research on time affecting soul magic (she listened to her sibling's tales of blacksmithing, he would indulge her sorcery), and requested a follow-up on the story of his wife's newly expressed desire for a child.

It was in part this last detail that caused her predicament, her uncertainty of how to continue the letter, of if she could sent it at all. Haven had no interest in children and even if she had, she most certainly had no time for one. Esme was much the same, the two of them had never so much as approached the topic due to their mutually understood lack of interest. Yet since reading her sibling’s most recent letter (though ‘recent’ was a stretch, it had arrived weeks ago – heavens, she had been putting this off) she couldn’t help but imagine her theoretical life as an aunt. Little would change, she was sure, the child would live with their parents in the kingdom over and Haven herself surely would rarely meet them. Only once had she paid a visit to her sibling since his departure, and even then, it had been wrapped in secrecy. Esme alone had known of Haven's destination, it would not do for somebody of her position to be found fraternizing with a person of Sawyer's reputation, regardless of their relationship.

Despite Haven's staunch disinterest in having children of her own, she had still found herself feeling gloomy at the prospect of becoming an aunt in name alone, being practically unable to spend time with her sibling’s child. For she had little doubt that she would become an aunt fairly soon. Say what she will of Sawyer's often reckless disposition, and she did just that, with great amusement, her sibling had a kind and comforting nature that would make him a near perfect parent. That was without mentioning his unending love for his wife, if they wanted a child, Sawyer would almost certainly provide.

So the letter lay half-written, as it had for weeks, Haven having memorized its lacking contents after reading it so many times. She simply didn’t know what to say. Did she just ask for more details, expressing interest without necessarily involving herself? Did she pre-emptively apologise for her future role as an absent aunt? Did she even dare respond to the news at all? She was a researcher, dammit, and partnered with someone of equal if not greater devotion to their studies, she had solidified her role as a woman of analytics, not familial bonding.

“All done,” Esme said.

Shaken from her thoughts, Haven turned and found her wife disconnecting the apparatus connected to the jar. “That didn’t take long,” she remarked.

“There was little new data to work from, and these tools can only test so much,” Esme replied, placing a metal charm back into her bag. Its colour seemed somewhat faded, signifying its need to recharge. “Though my specimen's talkative nature does lend credence to the idea of newly released souls holding greater sentience than those that have lingered for a while.” Her work completed, Esme was now addressing Haven exclusively, her former casual chatter with the soul having concluded. “My specimen last month had been without a body for longer and barely whispered a word. Granted, it could have simply not wished to talk, as is understandable, but I find it a hypothesis worth considering.”

Haven hummed, “Certainly not a waste of time, then.”

“Definitely not, all data is worthwhile, assuming that it has been properly gathered,” Esme replied. Finding little else to take note of in _Observations on the Stability of New Versus Faded Souls_, Haven elected to help with putting everything away. A whispering voice drew the attention of both researchers moments later.

“Excuse me,” the soul began tentatively, blue light glowing slightly brighter with their words, “but I don’t suppose I could say goodbye to my family before I pass, could I?”

Esme glanced sideways at Haven – she could put on a friendly voice to help along her research, but sincere words of comfort were not quite her realm of expertise. Neither was Haven overly adept in the field, but she would bear the burden this time.

Bending down to what could be considered eye level with the soul (were it to still possess eyes) and hoping that her doing so didn’t appear patronising, Haven addressed the jar’s occupant. “We cannot promise such a service to our subjects; however, we always do our best to honour the last wishes of any soul that comes into our care, within reason,” she said politely. “I will speak with our higher ups and see what arrangements can be made, you deserve a reasonable send-off given how helpful you have been.”

The pale blue light seemed to shine just slightly brighter as she spoke, and Haven sincerely hoped she’d be able to stay true to her word. From what she’d been told by Esme and had experienced on the rare occasions that she herself was tasked with testing, most souls didn’t tend to ask about their families. Many didn’t want to burden the researchers, others just weren’t interested in seeing their families again, and some were simply like Esme’s previous subject, seemingly lacking the sentience to ask questions. But there was no way that Haven would let this nervous soul pass on without seeing its family one last time, not if she could help it. Haven thought once more of her sibling, of the idea that if she couldn’t visit him again in future, she might never get to see his child. For years now, work had come before family, but she knew that she would regret passing up the opportunity to act as the aunt she would likely soon be, even if only for a day. If she valued her work so highly above her family, she could one day become an aunt and notice no change in her life, no bright eyes reflecting their mothers’ own, gazing up at her.

And yet, the choice remained a difficult one. If the vague rumours heard from her colleagues were true, she might be due for another promotion, elevated to a position where she could have a truly noticeable impact on the study of magic. Her workload would increase, and that was okay, she was committed, she could handle it, she was sure. However, with an increased workload and a greater social status, her opportunities to see her sibling would decrease evermore. That secretive visit to another kingdom could end up an anomaly, one inconsistent piece of data, and hadn’t she always tried to eliminate anomalies in her work? For the best results, data should be consistent. Unexpected events could complicate her studies, out of character excursions could, if discovered, jeopardize her chances of making great progress.

With these thoughts, the bitterness and the frustration found purchase.

First, it was levelled at Sawyer. Haven had worked so hard to get where she was, her efforts had rewarded her with a job she poured every fibre of herself into, so why should she risk all of that for somebody who left her alone, who fled to pursue his own passion?

Then, it was levelled at herself. How hypocritical to let her bitterness snap at her sibling, when she herself was only in this predicament due to a staunch desire to pursue her own passion, even as the driving force behind that passion was actively alienating Sawyer. And really, was the study of magic so astronomically important that she could not pay her sibling even one more visit? That she could not be an aunt, even for a day?

Back to Sawyer. Was his disinterest in magic so important that he could not visit her? Was he so committed to his passion that a brief return to Auralong was out of the question?

Finally, to the powers beyond her control. Accusing Sawyer of valuing his passion over his sister was not only hypocritical, but wholly unfair given that he could not even choose to return. The Rivenfell name, Sawyer’s name in particular, was met with shame in the kingdom she gave all of herself for. Her sibling could never come home to visit, but neither could she leave. If Haven visited her sibling and anybody but Esme knew, it could spell disaster for her career, for her dreams. Even her letters were a risk, were anyone to look too closely at their addresses, questions could be asked, and how uncomfortable those questions would be. Neither of them was truly at fault, each was at the mercy of a system designed to mandate conformity and shun those who disagreed.

Haven could go on to achieve great feats in the field of magic, to make spectacular breakthroughs in the study of the soul, but no matter what she achieved, she was hopeless in the face of a system far beyond her power that could and had broken her family apart.

The half-written letter didn’t make it home. Haven’s desk was cleared of her notes, the tomes of chicken scratch bearing invaluable information were stacked neatly in one of the many drawers on the office’s far wall, and the half-written letter was shoved inelegantly into her bag. Auralong’s everchanging sky was a darkening shade of pink, littered with sparkles that came from no stars, and far below it, two scholars prepared to head home as rain tinged rose battered on the window.

“It’s really coming down out there,” Esme cautioned, taking her umbrella out of her bag. The weather-casters had accurately warned that the rain was unlikely to relent today, and so Esme had come prepared. “Are you coming?”

Haven stood conflicted for a moment. The half-written letter felt like a tremendous weight in her bag. She glanced at the table where the soul’s jar had been, now clear as the soul had been taken away for safekeeping as their higher ups considered its request.

“I’ll catch up with you,” Haven decided. “I’d like to talk to the guys upstairs again before I go, see if I can convince them to help that soul out.”

Esme hummed. “Alright then, don’t be too long though, I’d like to get dinner on soon. I never ate anything during my break,” she admitted bashfully. “Do you have your own umbrella?”

Haven gave a small, silent sigh of relief. She’d been concerned that Esme might insist on waiting for her, but she didn’t have to worry about that. They’d never had the chance to grow that close.

“It’s in my bag,” Haven lied. “I shouldn’t be too long, maybe I’ll even catch up to you if I run.”

“Don’t run in this weather, you’re likely to slip and hurt yourself,” Esme tutted, though there was a small smile in her voice.

With that, they each waved a temporary goodbye, and Haven watched the rain batter Esme’s umbrella as she walked further from the building. Once she had counted one hundred and twenty seconds, Haven stepped out into the rain; her flora was immediately soaked. The cold, pink droplets ran down the side of her bag, its contents kept safe and dry. Haven opened the bag, removed the letter, and started walking.

Constant fretting over what to write in a letter? A letter that she was not supposed to be sending in the first place? That was a distraction, and distractions stopped work getting done, so there was no analogue clock, and though her superiors grumbled about the hammering of the rain being a distraction, even they couldn’t change the weather. Haven couldn’t control the weather either, at least not yet, though maybe if her magic progressed that far…? Regardless, there was a distraction that she could control. Raindrops ran down her face, she blinked them away as they tried to get in her eyes, and the letter in her hands quickly became illegible. Her neat, casual handwriting devolved into smears of black, and the letter honestly no longer looked half-written, the ink running down its surface so that both halves of the page were covered in ink. This was one way of completing it.

Nobody who found the letter would be able to read its contents. Nobody would know that she had been in contact with her shunned sibling. Haven could not be an aunt, she could not have a close family. She had Esme, and Esme was enough. She could not pursue her dreams while distracted by a family, just as Sawyer could not pursue his dreams in a kingdom that did not value him. Haven had come too far to risk it all, and so she made her choice. Her letter, drenched in pink-tinted rain and coated in smears of ink, came apart in her hands. Its ruined pieces were discarded in the porcelain street and washed away into the gutter, and Haven ran from the scene of her impossible choice, catching up to Esme without slipping once, thank you very much.

**Author's Note:**

> i had the same problem as Haven when deciding what i wanted her choice to be, and i was a bit uncertain writing the ending so apologies if the ending seems off! this is a little side-story to my story Dream Conductor which is much much longer and very very incomplete. i hope this character study thing for Haven was interesting!


End file.
